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by envysparkler, Periazhad



Series: Nest [4]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dismemberment, Gen, Graphic Description of Corpses, Graphic Violence, Hair Pets, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Restraints, Scarecrow's Fear Toxin (DCU), Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Torture, Vomiting, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-26 20:54:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30111885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/envysparkler/pseuds/envysparkler, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Periazhad/pseuds/Periazhad
Summary: The green lifts for a moment, and he reels backward in shock. But the Pit has been gone almost a year, it can't be coming back.But I am, whispers a familiar voice in his head.
Relationships: Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake & Jason Todd
Series: Nest [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2199378
Comments: 95
Kudos: 456





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**Author's Note:**

> I wrote Jason's POV for the intro, and freaked myself out so badly that I shoved it at Envy and she fixed it, like a champion.
> 
> Mind the tags, friends.

Tim doesn't see it coming, and neither does Jason. Tim stumbles in the Cave, and Jason reaches out a hand to catch him. But instead of catching him, a haze of green rolls over his vision and he shoves Tim to the ground.

The green lifts for a moment, and he reels backward in shock. But the Pit—the Pit has been gone almost a year, it’s not—it’s not coming back!

_But I am,_ whispers a familiar voice in his head, a voice that was _gone,_ and, against his will, Jason walks forward and kicks Tim in his side.

“J—Jason?” Tim coughs, looking up at him, eyes wide with confusion.

Tim trusts him.

As if in a dream, Jason feels himself draw his leg back and kick him again. Tim rolls with it this time, but can’t suppress his pained whimper.

Inside his head, Jason is screaming. The Pit whispers sweet nothings to him, but it’s _forcing_ him, and it never—even when it was in his head, it was his _choice_ to listen to it, but now he can’t stop it. He can’t stop himself.

He crouches down beside Tim, and plans to tell him he’s sorry, one of them has to get away, the Pit is here and no one is safe, but when he opens his mouth he says, “Timmy, Timmy, Timmy. I tried to warn you, but you just wouldn’t stay away.”

Green hazes over him again, washing away his horror with the strength of its glee, and when he wrenches himself back, Tim is hanging from the ceiling. Without the green haze, horror fills him again. He steps forward, planning to get Tim down and free, or maybe just run until he’s far enough away no one can get hurt. But as Jason steps forward, his arm moves, and a whip cracks through the air towards Tim.

_Not again,_ he begs himself. A hiss of green laughter echoes in his mind even as he’s telling his arm to let go, to stop, to do _anything_ but strike again and again. But he can’t stop himself, and he watches Tim jerk and hears his cries of agony echo in the Cave. 

There’s not enough blood for the Pit, it’s not _sated,_ and it forces Jason to start slicing into Tim all over his body. It’s not careful. It doesn’t matter what happens, this time. And then—Jason’s hand isn’t slicing, it’s _peeling,_ and— 

Tim writhes, begging, “Please, Jason, Hood, please _stop._ Please, I don’t—you can have whatever you w—want, just don’t—” but he’s sobbing too hard to keep begging. 

There’s—there’s so much blood. _You love this_ whispers the Pit, and Jason tries to tell it _no,_ but a line of green fire licks up his spine, swirls in his stomach, and he feels himself laugh.

“I never did get to my final plan for you, Timmy.” His mouth stretches in a sharp grin. “Don’t worry, this time I’ll finish it.”

Jason can’t look away as he cuts off Tim’s fingers, one by one, Tim shrieking anew with every painful cut. The amount of blood is shocking, he thinks distantly as it spatters all over him, as he’s trying to be anywhere but here, where he’s mutilating his brother. 

Just the night before, Tim crawled into Jason’s bed from a nightmare, and Jason curled around him to make him feel safe.

When he tries to bury his mind in that warm memory, the Pit hisses at him and drags him back. He watches the Pit continue to slowly mutilate Tim, the screams turning into sobbing and begging, and back to screaming. Nothing makes a difference to the Pit, and all of it breaks Jason. 

At one point, he thinks the Pit is slipping and he lunges forward, trying to wrest control of the knife, but he’s not trying to save Tim. There’s no saving Tim. He’s trying to make it quick, finish it, instead of watching his nightmare play out in front of him. 

Desperately, he tries to claw back control, but the green fire is spreading and he can feel—he can _feel_ himself drowning in it, the pleasure starting to outweigh the horror.

That’s worse than anything, and with a last, desperate effort he opens his mouth to—to scream, to apologize, but the Pit swallows him whole and he drowns.

* * *

The green haze clears slowly, and Jason feels sore. Sticky, too, his hands are covered with something, and his mouth tastes like iron. He pries open his eyes, but he doesn’t understand. He sees—his mind won’t accept it.

He looks away, looks down, and his hands are covered in blood. The Cave is covered in blood. He’s sitting in a spreading pool of blood, and there are—Jason turns to the side, vomiting. There are _pieces_ of Tim scattered throughout the Cave. 

Well. Pieces of what used to be Tim. He remembers throwing some of them away, when he—when the Pit was— 

There are two bloody holes on Tim’s head, where his eyes used to be, and someone has sliced a permanent smile into his cheeks. Someone. It was Jason. He did this.

Jason remembers putting out a cigarette on Tim’s skin, just to see him jerk.

His hands are shaking. Tim’s hands won’t ever shake—if you can still call the bloody lumps hands. Tim’s fingers are littered on the ground. Strips of skin are missing all over his body, and Jason distantly remembers that Tim was still alive when it happened. He’s not alive, now, of course. His viscera are pouring out of him, half in and half out of the deep slice that someone—Jason—gave him.

It would have taken a while for Tim to die, and Jason’s head suddenly floods with unwanted memories. Tim knew it was over, knew he wasn’t going to be saved, even if Bruce and Dick burst into the Cave at that very moment, and he begged Jason to end it.

So Jason—he looks and he sees it, Tim’s tongue, lying on the ground to the side of the horribly still body. Tim couldn’t cry without eyes, and he couldn’t beg without a tongue. And if he can’t cry or beg, why not make him smile?

The Pit—it just kept hurting Tim, and hurting Tim, until it was over. 

And now Jason’s alone in the Cave.

The silence presses in on him.

He’s numb. He can’t feel the tacky blood drying on his hands or face. He can’t feel if he’s still trembling, or if he feels sick anymore. His eyes are wide, unseeing, and he slowly unholsters one of his guns.

The Pit could come back, at any time, and Tim is—Tim is beyond him now, but no one else is, and Jason can’t—it’s never going to be safe—

He raises the gun to his head and curls his finger around the trigger.

Pauses, for just a moment. And fires.

* * *

He wakes up. He _wakes up_.

His first thought is horror.

No. _No_ . He can’t—the Pit—the Pit _stopped_ him—Jason can’t—he needs to end it _now_ —

He’s tied to the bed. Restrained in the typical padded cuffs. For a moment he thinks the Pit did it, it forced him to stay alive, to keep _feeding_ it, but that doesn’t make any sense.

Bruce is at his bedside, and Jason stares at him for a long moment. Bruce looks _exhausted_. He looks terrible. He looks—

Tim screaming, until he couldn’t scream anymore.

The—the vacant, the _empty_ sockets—the ghastly, permanent smile—the blood, the _guts,_ the—the—

Jason doesn’t know what sound he makes, but Bruce’s gaze snaps towards him. The razor sharp glint that separates _Bruce_ from _Batman_ as he assesses Jason. As he assesses his son’s murderer.

Bruce won’t kill him. Bruce _won’t kill,_ and right now, that is the most terrifying thing Jason can think of.

“P— _please,”_ Jason stutters, even though it’s hopeless, even though he knows—Bruce never killed the Joker, and the Joker killed more people than Jason, so Bruce won’t end it, no matter how desperately he begs.

But the Joker never—never did—never did _that._

That’s what Jason has become. That’s what the Pit twisted him into. He’s worse than the _Joker,_ than a mass murderer that put all other mass murderers to shame, because the Joker beat him bloody and blew him up, but he didn’t _flay him alive_ or _mutilate him_ or _gouge out his eyes,_ oh god, Jason was going to _puke—_

“Jaylad?” Bruce asks, voice soft, and—and Jason just _blanks._

What.

_What._

Bruce should’ve thrown him into the darkest hole he could find—he should be waking up in _Arkham,_ strapped into a straightjacket in a padded room—he shouldn’t be in the Cave, he shouldn’t be here, he shouldn’t—

Oh. Bruce doesn’t think it was _him._ He thinks—he thinks it was the Pit.

Well, it _was_ the Pit, but Jason clearly cannot control it, that hope was a lie, he can’t—he can’t do this anymore.

Who’s next? Alfred? Dick? _Bruce?_ How many people is Jason going to kill before they realize he’s a monster, before they realize that it doesn’t _matter_ that he doesn’t want to do it, before they realize _they can’t stop him?_

“Please,” Jason begs. “Please just end it.” Jason can’t live like this.

“Jason,” Bruce says, his voice rising in alarm—oh, right, he already tried to kill himself once and that didn’t stick, he was going to be saddled with another suicide watch, and no one would let him get _close_ to a knife or a gun or _anything_ to end it, please, _please—_

“What happened?” Dick slips through the door—he doesn’t look like he got much sleep either, and Jason morbidly wonders who was the one to find them first.

Find Tim’s broken, mutilated corpse.

Find Jason kneeling in the blood.

“Jay,” Bruce says, “Jay, sweetheart, stop—you’re hurting yourself—” Jason dimly notes that he’s yanking at the cuffs, but if they won’t kill him, maybe at least they’ll put him to sleep. He can’t hurt anyone while he’s sleeping.

“What’s going on?” says a too-young, too-smooth, too-bright voice as Dick is joined in the doorway by a slighter figure. A voice that isn’t cracked and hoarse and reduced to guttural screams. A face with two blue eyes and a worried expression. A boy with all ten fingers, and no blood weeping from patches of red.

Jason doesn’t move. Jason isn’t even sure if he’s breathing.

“Tim,” Dick says worriedly, glancing from Jason to Tim and back again, “Maybe you should leave—”

“ _No,”_ Jason practically shouts, tugging harder against the cuffs, because—dream, hallucination, he didn’t know that Tim was _real,_ that he was alive, that he was miraculously unharmed, that—Tim couldn’t leave, not when Jason wasn’t sure if he was okay—

“Okay, Jay, calm down,” Bruce soothes, but Tim looks like a spooked rabbit. “Tim isn’t going anywhere.” Tim looks like he wants to run. “It’s okay—Tim, could you maybe come closer?”

Tim darts a glance at the cuffs, and Jason realizes he’s straining against them again. He forces himself to relax, to slump back against the bed, to watch through narrowed eyes as Tim gets closer.

Finally, _finally,_ Tim reaches out and curls his fingers around Jason’s, and they feel _warm._ Jason can’t choke down the sob as he squeezes back—not too tight, _not too tight—_ and watches his little brother stare at him in concern.

“Jay,” Bruce says, and Jason hums, unable to move his gaze from Tim. Tim, who is whole. Tim, who is _alive._ Tim, who is not sobbing-begging- _screaming_ for him to stop. “Jason, you got hit with fear toxin. Whatever you saw wasn’t real.”

It feels like he’s a puppet, and someone just cut his strings.

_It wasn’t real._

He didn’t— _he_ didn’t—the Pit didn’t come back. He didn’t torture Tim. He didn’t—torture seems too simple a word for what he did—no, what he _didn’t_ do, it wasn’t real, _it wasn’t real._

Jason shudders through the sobs, and keeps his increasingly blurry vision on Tim. “It’s okay,” Tim says softly, and then, turning to Bruce, “Can we get him out—?”

“Yes,” Bruce replies, and the cuffs are released, and Jason doesn’t stop to pause—doesn’t stop to _think_ that Tim still flinches when he moves too fast, because he can’t, he can’t wait, he needs—

Tim is warm in his arms. Jason can hear his heartbeat racing. Can feel the tiny shivers as Jason’s tears drip against his collarbone. Can feel slim fingers—he sliced through them with a _snap_ of bone and laughed as Tim cried—settle in his hair and begin to stroke.

“It’s okay,” Tim says softly, in a voice that never screamed until Jason cut its tongue out. “It’s okay. I’m right here.”

“Oh, little wing,” Dick says, low and mournful, and the cot dips as Dick curls up next to him, resting his head against Jason’s shoulder. “It was all fear toxin. You’re okay, Jaybird. You’re okay.”

“It—the Pit—” Jason chokes, because he can’t _say_ it, he can’t—can’t describe the scene he woke up to—he wants to puke just thinking about it—

“It wasn’t you,” Tim says firmly. “It’s the fear toxin. It wasn’t real.”

“You don’t even know what I did,” he says, hollow.

Tim goes still. Jason knows what everyone’s thinking—Tim _does_ know what Jason’s capable of, he knows how cruel he can be, he’s lived the nightmare Jason just woke up from—but also Jason was never that—that _despicable_ in reality.

“It doesn’t matter,” Tim says softly, still stroking through Jason’s hair as Jason clutches him close with trembling fingers. “It wasn’t real.”

“I—I killed you,” Jason confesses. Dick makes a low, wounded noise. “And I didn’t—it wasn’t—I didn’t make it _quick.”_

“It wasn’t real,” Bruce says softly, and Dick hums in agreement, and Tim’s heart beats steadily, as if he isn’t being held by someone that just confessed to giving him a slow, torturous death.

“You don’t—you don’t even know—” and Jason can’t continue, because his stomach turns over, and he forces himself to let go of Tim. Bruce has clearly already read the signs, because he’s holding a bucket and Jason grabs it and retches.

_“Jay, p—please stop.”_

_Skin peeling off like wallpaper, curling up red and bloody._

_“S_ — _stop_ — _this isn’t you_ — _Jay_ — _Jay!”_

_Knife pressing against bone, and the quiet_ flick _of his wrist as it snapped through the finger, accompanied by a horrified scream._

_“N_ — _no_ — _Bruce_ — _please_ — _Dick_ — _someone_ — _”_

“Jason. Jay. Deep breaths. Calm down.”

_“I never got around to carving out those eyes, did I, Timmy?”_

_Wails, agonized and unending, and blood drip_ — _drip_ — _drips from empty sockets._

_“You really want me to end it?”_

_“P_ — _please_ — _please, Jason_ — _please_ — _”_

_The cut is long and slow. Less painful than the eyes, but the slight teen still has the strength to jerk and flinch as the knife finishes slicing through his guts. Intestines spill out like coils of rope. Another jerk ensures that the stomach is ruptured, acid slowly leaking out to the rest of the wounds._

_“There_ — _why are you shaking your head, Timmy? This is what you wanted. You’re going to die, I promise.”_

_“N_ — _no_ — _please_ — _Jay_ — _Hood_ — _don’t_ — _can’t_ — _please_ — _please_ — _please_ — _”_

_Desperate sobs, a stream of broken pleas_ — _the Pit didn’t like that. The Pit didn’t like that at all._

“Jason!” Blood splatters into the bowl, something _burns_ in his throat, fingers clutch his shoulders, hands rub down his back.

_The cut was messy. And bloody. But no more begging._

_No more begging, no more crying, nothing but those awful, gutted screams_ — _they weren’t even pretty, the baby bird used to sing so sweetly._

_“Let’s put a smile on that face.”_

_His hands are steady. Oh so steady. They do not tremble. Not when he is whipping a fifteen-year-old child. Not when he snaps off fingers, one by one. Not when he gouges out his little brother’s bright blue eyes. Not when he carves his murderer’s calling card into a still-breathing corpse._

“Jason, Jay, please—breathe, son, you need to breathe—Jason please—it wasn’t real, whatever it was, _it wasn’t real—_ you didn’t do anything, sweetheart, it’s okay—please breathe—”

There is a fresh bucket in front of him. He can smell blood. Bruce’s hand is on his thigh as his father kneels in front of him, staring up with desperate eyes. Dick is murmuring a low, quiet song in an unfamiliar language. Tim is curled up against his side, pressing closer as if fusing to Jason’s ribs would make him stop puking.

Those long, slender fingers—

Jason heaves again. There is nothing to come up, nothing but bile, and his stomach has twisted itself into knots. Tim is still petting his trembling arm, and Jason focuses on that, on his little brother alive and whole.

He can’t stop shaking. The heaves turn to hiccups as he sobs, and Bruce lowers the bucket before reaching up to envelop Jason in a hug. He—he doesn’t deserve it, not after everything he did, not when he still has Tim’s screams ringing in his ears, but Bruce doesn’t care. Bruce holds him, like he is something precious, like he _matters,_ like Bruce cares that Jason is shaking and shivering and cold and sweating.

Fingers stroke through his hair, and Jason goes boneless. This is Batman. Batman can stop him. Jason is _safe._

* * *

Jason refuses to let himself be alone with Tim. _Fear toxin,_ everyone said, _fear toxin—_ but Jason is back on suicide watch, he’s never left alone for a second, and he has to wear a medical bracelet that sends his vitals to Bruce’s phone.

But not Tim. Jason cannot look at him without the memory-image of the corpse superimposing itself over his little brother. He cannot be in the same room with him without panicking over how easy it would be to overpower and kill him. And yet—and yet he needs to keep eyes on Tim at all times.

It takes a while for anyone to catch on—Jason is vehement that Tim is not to be left alone with him, and a bewildered Tim agrees to acquiesce—but Bruce comes bursting into the den one day when Dick is watching a movie and Jason is silently hyperventilating on the couch, and Jason can’t fight through the panic so when Bruce asks him, frantic, “What do you need?” he replies without thinking.

“Tim.”

As soon as he sees his little brother, the panic choking him eases. Tim curls against him, slow, like Jason will spook if he moves too fast, and he rests his head against Jason’s shoulder, and Jason can feel the dread slowly loosen from the collar around his throat. Bruce checks his numbers on the phone, and then checks Jason’s pulse again by hand before slowly deflating.

It happens in therapy, too—Jason gets halfway through describing why the fear toxin nightmares terrified him and—and his breath catches in his throat because what if—what if Tim—where is Tim—all he can remember is the mutilated corpse, _where is Tim—_

Dick is there, then, a solid line of warmth against his side, and Tim is half in his lap, and—and Jason tried to be subtle about it at first, but he doesn’t care anymore, he counts every one of Tim’s fingers twice before meeting wide blue eyes.

His therapist watches them calmly. “Why did you need to see Tim?” he asks evenly, after he has permission to continue the session.

“I—I need to make sure he’s alive.”

His therapist hums. “Do you think a medical bracelet like yours will help?” he asks, “If Tim consents to wearing one?”

“I would wear one if it helps,” Tim says solemnly, and Jason hugs him tighter. The medical bracelets measure pulse, blood pressure, breathing rate, temperature, sleep cycles, and their current location. Jason thinks about it—being able to check that Tim’s alive by glancing at his phone would be a huge help.

“Y—yeah,” Jason says quietly, “That sounds like a good idea.”

Bruce gets it set up, and Jason can quietly watch Tim’s vital signs whenever he feels too lost.

* * *

He wakes up with a start—chasing Tim through the Manor, slow, deliberate steps, watching him try to crawl away on legs with bleeding stumps, watching him collapse, watching him _cry_ as Jason got closer and closer and—

Thank god he woke up before that one finished. Jason swallows _hard,_ and reaches for his phone. _4:13_ blinks at him. Bruce and Dick should be back from patrol, and in bed. Tim should be sleeping, unless he had a nightmare, and Jason clicks open the app that reports his vitals, and Tim’s vitals, and even Bruce’s and Dick’s when they’re in their suits.

He closes the app, and opens it again.

He closes the app, reboots his phone, and opens it again— _no, please no, please—_

Jason’s vitals show his pulse rising. Tim’s vitals—Tim’s vitals are a flat line, greyed out.

_No._

He—he needs to think logically. He—this—this could be a dream. Jason goes through his breathing exercises. And pinches his arm for good measure. When he opens his eyes, Tim’s vitals are still grey.

It—it could be a glitch. It could—Jason pulls up Tim’s location, he’s in the Cave, and Jason is moving before he’s made the decision to. They don’t watch him as closely anymore, trusting in the bracelet and the therapy and Jason’s word that he’ll _talk_ to someone before—before he does anything—and right now that’s a blessing because he can sprint through the empty house to the Cave, but it’s also a curse because—because—because what if—

Jason’s heart is thundering in his ears as he takes the steps down, dread coils around his heart, his mouth is dry and his head is aching and all he can think is _no, please no—_

The medical bracelet is on the desk of the Batcomputer. The bracelet, and nothing else. It’s been torn in two, like it was ripped off.

Jason’s phone drops from his hand and hits the ground.

He backs away—he doesn’t want to see, he doesn’t want to look, he doesn’t want to check where the body might be—he remembers scattering the pieces all over, oh god, what if they’re in _multiple places—_ he needs—he needs to—he can’t—he doesn’t even _remember—_ he needs to find his—

No.

He promised.

He swore to Bruce that he would talk to him, to Dick, to Alfred, to _someone_ before he decides to kill himself.

He can’t break another promise. He can’t. He wants it all to end, but—but Robin is supposed to be _brave,_ and he can’t be selfish.

He closes his eyes when his back hits the containment cell. It’s the work of seconds to program it, to turn the glass opaque— _he doesn’t want to see—_ and lock himself inside.

* * *

The door opens not even five minutes later—Jason, who is carefully counting his breaths so he doesn’t succumb to the growing panic attack, hasn’t even reached two hundred when the glass goes clear and Bruce wrenches open the door.

“ _No,”_ Jason says, horrified, because _he doesn’t want to see,_ and Bruce pauses mid-step. “Put it back!”

Bruce hesitates for another microsecond, slams the button that turns the cell opaque and lunges back inside. He drops to his knees in front of where Jason’s curled up, and Jason lets him grab his wrists and check the bracelet and run his hands over him to check for any other injuries and clutch Jason’s shoulders as Bruce takes a shuddering breath.

“What _happened?”_ comes out gruff and high, and Jason flinches. Bruce tracks it, and slowly lets go, easing back—and Jason knows it’s coming, knows he doesn’t deserve Bruce’s warmth, but he still shivers.

“I—I don’t remember,” Jason shakes his head, because maybe he just doesn’t _want_ to remember. There was no blood on the stairs, so Tim wasn’t—Jason didn’t—but maybe just the location is wrong.

Maybe Jason carved his little brother into so many pieces that they’ll never find them all.

Maybe he _has_ to remember.

“You don’t remember how you got inside the cell?” Bruce asks, frowning, and Jason realizes he’s misunderstood.

“T—Tim,” he forces out, and then falls silent when Bruce checks his phone. The last, desperate hope that maybe Jason’s just losing his mind is snuffed out when Bruce pales.

Bruce immediately spins out of the cell—leaving the door open, and Jason opens his mouth to tell him to close it—but he’s returning quickly, the torn bracelet in his hand. His face looks like it’s trying to be angry, but Jason can see the bone-deep fear in his eyes.

But Bruce is gentle when he kneels down and asks, “What’s the last thing you remember?”

“I—I woke up in my bed and T—Tim was—” Jason gestures at the bracelet. Bruce closes his eyes and takes a deep breath—in the meantime, Dick shows up at the cell door, panting.

“What the hell’s going on?” Dick demands, “Where’s Tim?” His gaze catches on the torn bracelet, and he inhales sharply.

“I don’t know,” Bruce says quietly, and straightens, “I’m going to search for him. You stay here.”

Of course they need someone to watch him. He could turn into Hood again at any second. Jason bites back a sob and curls up.

Bruce’s face spasms. “No, sweetheart, not like that,” Bruce says softly, “You didn’t hurt Tim.”

“I—I don’t remember—”

“I believe you didn’t hurt him,” Bruce repeats, and pauses to press a kiss to Jason’s forehead before walking out. Jason cries harder—it’s the fear toxin all over again, Bruce can’t see what’s in front of him—and doesn’t resist when Dick curls around him and tugs him into a firm hug.

The cell door stays open.

“It’s okay, Jay,” Dick says softly, “We’ll find Tim, I promise. You didn’t do anything wrong, little wing.”

“You d—don’t _know_ that.”

Dick hums. “I know you, Jaybird. You would never hurt him.”

“The P—Pit—”

“Is gone. We’ve run the tests. I can run them again right now, if you’d like.” Jason shakes his head. He’s not leaving this cell. He never should’ve left it in the first place. Now if only they _close the damn door—_

Footsteps. Two pairs, one running—and Jason loses his breath when Tim shows up in the doorway, breathless and frantic.

Alive. _Alive._

Tim launches himself at Jason, and he has to uncurl before the kid smashes into his shins—Tim clings to Jason, sobbing, and tries to force out words amid the gasps, “—sorry—got caught against—ripped—wanted to fix it—should’ve texted you— _sorry—_ didn’t want—worry— _really sorry—_ Jay—please—I’m _so sorry_ —”

Jason clutches Tim as the kid burrows closer—Bruce steps inside, looking like he’s aged five years, and takes a seat on the other side of Jason before letting out a shaky exhale.

Tim keeps babbling apologies amid the hiccups and tears and Jason shushes him, his heart twisting—Tim crying, Tim sobbing, Tim _begging—_ and Dick finally pulls Tim away to curl him in his own lap, muffling Tim’s words against his shirt. Jason tips back, and lets himself sprawl against Bruce, burying his head in his dad’s shirt as warm arms envelop him.

* * *

“So, your plan is to just stay in the cell?” Alfred asked, setting up the platters of food like it was a picnic.

Jason makes a noncommittal sound from where he’s curled up on the cot, blanket wrapped tightly around him. He refused to move, and started crying when Bruce picked him up, so they’re letting him stay here. They won’t lock the door though, no matter how much he begs, Bruce actually cut out the locking mechanism so Jason couldn’t do it himself.

They’re back to not leaving him alone—someone has been in the cell with him since morning. First it was Bruce while Dick got Tim fitted with another bracelet and carried the still-crying boy back to bed. Then Dick took his turn through morning as an anxious Tim hovered in and out—no more pleading, thank god, though the baby bird still looks devastated. Now it’s Alfred, setting up what might be a delicious lunch if Jason had any mood to eat.

“That’s a lot of food,” Jason says quietly—setting Alfred up for the disappointment of Jason not finishing anything, and also because that truly _is_ a lot of food, way more than for two people.

“It is a decent-sized meal, Master Jason. Now would you please join this old man before his poor joints start creaking?”

Jason flushes, and warily uncurls from under his blanket to sit cross-legged on the floor next to Alfred. It truly is a massive amount of food—and Alfred’s set five places. Jason groans.

“It looks _scrumptious,_ Al!” Dick beams, bouncing in and taking a seat with unnecessary flourish. He starts serving himself before Bruce walks in, Tim following close behind.

Bruce settles on Jason’s other side, their knees knocking together, and Tim takes a seat between Dick and Bruce, his eyes still red-rimmed.

“What is this?” Jason asks suspiciously. The cell isn’t meant to hold five people, and they barely fit.

“Lunch, Master Jason.”

“Why are you all _here_?”

“You do not wish to leave the cell. So be it. I’ll admit, I am more used to the Manor’s facilities, but if you wish for us to live out of a ten foot by ten foot box, I am sure we can adjust.”

Jason scowls at Alfred, because he’s being _deliberately obtuse._ Alfred raises an eyebrow, “Your lunch is getting cold, Master Jason.”

Jason turns a pleading look at Bruce, but Bruce just offers him a half-shrug, a _‘what do you expect me to do’._ Dick grins back when Jason glares at him, and Tim’s lower lip wobbles.

Oh no.

“I’m _sorry,”_ the kid bursts into tears again. “I swear it’ll never happen again! Jason, _please,_ I promise, I will let you know the _second_ the bracelet stops working, I’m so sorry, please don’t stay here, Jason _please—”_

Ah, fuck.

“It’s okay, baby bird,” Jason manages. “It was an accident. It’s _okay_.”

“But you won’t come back!” the kid near-wails, and the last of Jason’s reasons to stay here, where he can make sure they’re all safe, wavers and falls apart.

“Okay, _okay_ ,” Jason says, because he can’t watch Tim crying. “I’ll—I’ll come back upstairs.” The kid chokes down a sob, and practically vaults the mini picnic to jump into Jason’s lap and curl up, silent but shuddering.

Dick, Bruce, and Alfred make no attempt to hide that this was blatant manipulation, all of them exuding an air of satisfaction.

“You are not Hood,” Bruce tells him, gentle, and presses a kiss to his forehead, “Come home, Jason.”


End file.
